


and i'll wait for you

by raggirare



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, HQ Weekend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:44:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4875589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raggirare/pseuds/raggirare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The real reason famous-in-middle-school-setter Semi Eita isn't playing as a regular for the Spring High.</p>
<p>(Or: self-indulgent author who is upset at Furudate for constantly teasing at Eita's presence and the fact he's important by making sure he gets a panel every chapter but never actually giving us actual Eita time.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i'll wait for you

**Author's Note:**

> For [Shiratorizawa Weekend](http://dailyhaikyuu.tumblr.com/post/128576925527/shiratorizawa-weekend-is-coming-up-september) Day One: Favourite Swan **[Semi Eita]**

There’s a different weight to the colours of his nation than his school colours. The red feels heavier than the familiar purple, a more pressing weight of responsibility, whether it’s his number on the court  or simply his training jacket hanging around his shoulders. It makes him feel wearier by the end of the training camp, a simple weekend stolen away in Tokyo, somehow squeezed in between school and testing and the looming Spring High, and wearier still with the weight of the meeting with the coach and the team’s physiotherapist he had just finished. An outcome he had expected, but one he had been hoping to avoid if it were at all possible (and had he paid attention to the advice he had been given back at the Inter High, it may have been possible after all).

It’s only the mental reminder that it could have been far worse that lets him keep his head up, and he moves his hand from rubbing at his left elbow to push open the door of the team’s changing room, stepping into the silence.

“Eita.”

The sound of his name cuts through the silence with ease, echoing off of the walls one or twice before the remnants of the calm voice disappear entirely. Grey eyes follow the source to one of the benches against the wall, a book held in a large palm and piercing eyes focused on him. The setter smiles.

“Wakatoshi,” he greets, letting go of the door to allow it to swing closed. “You waited.”

“Of course.” A rustle of fabric and paper against paper before the book closes and is set on the bench beside him. “I said I would.” The spiker remains seated, though, hands resting on his lap and his eyes continue to follow his teammate as the setter reaches his locker and pulls it open. The eye contcat breaks once, and only briefly, dropping to focus on Eita’s elbow and the skin red from habitual rubbing, the scar carving parallel to the bone less accentuated with his arm bent the way it is. “What did the coach say?”

There’s no clarification, because there doesn’t need to be. It’s been a topic hanging over Eita (over the entirety of both of his teams) for a few months now, with closely supervised training and constant physiotherapy appointments and the constant reminder to take care. But Eita doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, he focuses on changing; on hanging his Japan team jacket and tugging off his sweaty training shirt and then shorts and searching for his towel. There’s still no vocalized answer even when he does find it and takes it, along with a small toiletry bag, in the direction of the showers.

Wakatoshi doesn’t press, or even follow. He simply picks his book up again and waits the silence out.

The shower isn’t as long as Eita would like.

In a situation like this, he would prefer to sink hours into standing in the blistering hot spray or the surrounding warmth of a bath, but he doesn’t have the time for that. Not with a schedule to keep and a bullet train to catch to take them back to Miyagi. He has time enough to wash the sweat away from his body and from his hair, and then a minute or two to contemplate his current state of being. Even if it’s not as long as he would like, it still manages to be enough time to gather himself and prepare himself to answer the question he had left hanging in the locker room.

“Shirabu’s going to be main setter for the regionals.” Eita’s answer is how he announces his return from the shower, towel around his neck, hair dripping and sticking to his face, and no care towards the fact that his only piece of clothing is his underwear held in his hand with his toiletry bag (after being friends with Wakatoshi for almost six years, he has long since lost count of how many times they’ve seen each other naked). “I’m allowed to pinch serve since it won’t overwork my elbow but I won’t be able to play setter. Not until after the match against Korea.”

“I see,” the wing spiker’s response may have seemed distant and uncaring to most, with the way he barely even paused from his reading and only glanced in Eita’s direction long enough to see him pulling on clean underwear before he looks back down to his book. “We told you not to worry. We will still win Nationals together.”

“I thought it was Reon’s job to say ‘I told you so,’” Eita’s tease comes with a laugh as he finishes dressing himself and sets to work drying his hair. “At least it’s only regionals I’m missing. We all know how that goes.” It was always the same, and as much as he’d like to crush Oikawa one last time in the high school circuit, he couldn’t deny he would love to see his own underclassman beating someone older than him.

The silence returns and Eita finishes preparing his things, spending ten minutes alone on styling his hair before packing his training uniform into his bag. It’s a cathartic act, methodically folding his national team jacket and trackpants to place them in his bag with the rest of his gear, separating himself from the mindset of the nation as he zips the bag closed and focusing on the mindset of his school, the purple named emblazoned across the white front of the bag.

“Are you ready?”

Wakatoshi’s voice right behind him breaks Eita from his reverie, though there’s no evidence of surprise or being caught off guard, and he closes the locker door and slings his bag over his shoulder. There’s a touch at his elbow, though, finger pads ghosting over the ugly scar he’s born since his second year of middle school. A smile tugs at the setter’s lips, gentle and warm, and his right hand lifts first to brush against the other’s hand and then to press again the back of it to hold it between his palm and his elbow.

It’s supposed to be a comforting touch, he understands that. Wakatoshi’s always done things a little differently. Been a little more simple and direct about the way he shows his concerns, and it’s something Eita’s always welcomed. The touch and the meaning it holds pulls the last of his concern off his shoulders and he feels himself straightening, shoulders squaring.

“Yeah, let’s go.” His hand drops and he adjusts the strap on his bag, grey eyes looking up at his friend. “I want to get some food before our train. And I owe Reon a box of Tokyo Bananas as well.”

“You bet against him?”

“Better against him than against Satori. Satori made me ask Oikawa to kiss me last time I lost.”


End file.
